Sherlock's missing gift
by Mishalovesreading
Summary: What happens when Sherlock loses the one thing that he values above all, even John, his mind? After his fake suicide, Sherlock comes back but after a few years, it begins to crumble and deteriorate. John begins to lose him right before his eyes but can the one thing that they refuse to admit, save him from the brink of insanity? Rated M for later chapters


**Before you begin reading this, here's a little note. As you can see from my previous stuff, I'm not very good at updating. And I am promising any better for this but I will try, I can promise you that. I will try my hardest to update until I die! But the next few weeks/ months are going to be a bit hard because I'm super busy with exams and my volunteering things. But thank you, if you do subscribe to this story, because it shows that you trust in me and this heart felt message. And you are probably thinking "Well why didn't you wait until afterwards?" Well in short I wanted a break from revising, I had an amazing idea and I got bored. Anyway! Have fun reading! And also the pov's will alternate from time to time.**

**A/N- Sherlock doesn't belong to me and any characters within this chapter belong to the BBC.**

John sat on his usual, beaten down recliner that was opposite a now disgracefully empty chair. His heart, which now the heaviness of a lead weight and the feelings of the same amount. He come hear the television murmuring useless nonsense in the background.

_"__And you say that your father hasn't contacted you in twenty years?"_

_"__Yeah Jeremy! He says child support were enough! By 'eck was he wrong!"_

The words washed over him like a bone chilling tsunami, not registering them at all, even though he felt the shiver of horrible recognition run through him. His head caught up with his ears and his facade crumbled. He dropped his head into his hands, restraining himself from crying, as he remember the time when Sherlock had become so bored he'd watched daytime television.

"John? John?!" Mrs Hudson called up the stairs before John heard the repetitive squeak of the old stairs as she ambled to the top and immediately locked her sights on the mounting pile of days old rubbish, discarded takeaways and horribly enough Sherlock's Violin. It's pieces were scattered amongst the wasteland that used to be their flat. The strings, which were curled up like sleeping snakes, were hanging from the small section of the violin that hadn't been completely decimated.

The only place that was completely devoid of all clutter was Sherlock's section of the kitchen table which still had his small microscope, which he'd always claimed to be worse than the labs, and the strange collection of assorted objects which to a layman like him, made no sense. He refused to cover the stuff up or remove it because even though it hurt him to see it, it would hurt more to see it crushed and turned into something else. _Just like Sherlock..._

"John," Mrs Hudson tutted as she began tidying up. "Mycroft called. He told me he'd tried your phone and it hadn't rung. Have you eaten? I don't think takeaways count as a balanced diet though..."

Mrs Hudson continued to potter about, picking up the remnants of everything before he saw her fingers brush the edge of a smooth piece of the ruined Violin. She picked it up with her bitten nails, which she had since taken to after Sherlock's death, and clutched it in her palm with a resounding sigh.

"What happened?" she said quietly before turning around and looking him in his eyes. John turned his face away guiltily.

"I was angry after the funeral. He shouldn't have left me but he did. He..." John took a deep breath, his hands shaking with part anger mixed with a colossal amount of sadness. "left me, Mrs Hudson. I couldn't... I had to break something he loved like he broke himself" he said and buried his face in his hands again.

Mrs Hudson's eyebrows furrowed but she patted John's shoulder briefly before continuing tidying up, obviously avoiding the broken pieces as well as Sherlock's work area.

"We need to store this stuff away, John. You can't keep it here forever" she said quietly before starting to make him a tea, as per the british way of dealing with crisis.

Although it had been a year since Sherlock's suicide, John still believed that if he left the flat, all memories of Sherlock which he'd set in stone would crumble. His room still remained unslept in, due to the fact he was now sleeping on the sofa, but strangely enough it had collected the same amount of mess that the living room had.

"Here" Mrs Hudson smiled gently as she placed the cup and saucer on the table in front of him. Besides the table sat his cane which was an ever reminder of the miracle Sherlock performed to show him he didn't need it.

"How about you go for a walk? You don't want to get your limp back!" she said, joy evident in her voice. Truthfully, she was just putting on this charade for John's benefit. She was as broken as this as he was but John, forever the soldier, seemed intent in mourning him in his own way.

"I don't think-"

"I insist John. You haven't left the apartment in three days for anything. It's that bad even Mycroft has began to worry for you" she interrupted and fixed him with a rare stare which conveyed all of her worries for him.

He nodded once and stood up stiffly which, he reminded himself, that was down to his psychological problems. He noted that she had begun to sound like Sherlock, maybe because she seemed to be taking this better than him, as he walked down the stairs and through the front door.

"Mr Watson" A voice hissed softly from the the open window of a black Mercedes, the usual confines that Mycroft would send to collect him.

John turned to face the person reluctantly, ignoring the fact his limp seemed to intensify in the presence of someone other than a close friend such as Molly or Mrs Hudson. "Tell Mycroft that I don't want to see him" he grumbled before turning on his heel and beginning to walk in the opposite direction, feeling his limp ease with every step he took away from the car. Unfortunately the car kept on following him, crawling the kerb beside him until he finally stopped and shot a glare at the driver.

"Mr Watson I'm not employed by Mycroft. The man I am employed from asked me to give you this" he answered before opening the door and getting out. He handed John a manila envelope before getting back into the car.

"Who are you employed by?" He questioned curiously, tracing the envelope's surface which had his name written in curled cursive that looked too beautiful to be written on something that could be disposed of so easily.

"I'm sorry John but I can't tell you that. All of the answers are in the envelope" he smiled mysteriously before rolling the window back up. Not quickly enough for John not to notice the blue scarf that was laid on the passenger seat. It was seemingly identical to the one that John had tied around his neck every day, his personal tribute to the worlds only consulting detective.


End file.
